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“I’m fine,” she assures me again when I keep a hold of her hips longer than strictly necessary, worried she might fall.
Releasing her reluctantly, I watch closely for any sign that her legs might give out, but she seems more stable on her high heels now. She walks to the sink and leans over it, giving me a wonderful view as she turns on the faucet, slurps a mouthful of the water, and swishes it around to wash the taste from her mouth.
Then she focuses her attention on the mirror, running her fingers beneath her eyelashes to remove the excess liner that started to smudge. Next, she tidies her hair, making the routine look easy as she puts herself back together with impressive precision and speed.
I watch her, at a loss for what to do but wanting to somehow help.
Finally, she takes a deep, steadying breath and releases it.
“Ready?” I ask, slightly amazed at the transformation she managed in a matter of minutes.
“Ready,” she agrees, and I open the door to let her out.
In the hallway, I offer her my elbow, unsure of just how stable she could be after feeling so shaky and weak. She takes it, her touch light as she walks with me back to the dining room.
“Everything okay?” Mayor Romney asks, rising from his seat as we enter.
While the children have continued their meal, I can tell that both the mayor and his wife have sat waiting, likely worried for Tia and not wanting to eat until they could be sure she’s alright.
It hits me that Tia and I haven’t discussed what kind of excuse to make in this situation. I’d been so confident she was faking the pregnancy that I hadn’t concerned myself with it.
But Tia doesn’t hesitate a beat. “Yes, fine. Thank you. So sorry to keep you waiting. It’s rather embarrassing, really, but I have a history of spontaneous bloody noses. Poor Leo hasn’t witnessed one before. But I’m perfectly fine now.”
We settle in at the table once again, and I glance subtly in Tia’s direction as I wonder if it might not have been the food that set her off. Will she be able to eat it if so?
“My brother used to get terrible nose bleeds as a child,” Signora Romney says kindly. “Thankfully, he grew out of them in his twenties. Hopefully, you will, too.”
“Wouldn’t that be a blessing?” Tia says with a breathy laugh, and she cuts into her breaded meat.
“So, tell me, Tia, were those younger girls dancing with you at the wedding your sisters?” Singora Romney asks.
Tia hums affectionately, moving to twirl her spaghetti without taking a bite of the veal parmesan she cut. She’s mimicking the process of eating, moving the food around her plate more than actually consuming it. A masterful way of covering her lack of appetite. But it makes my stomach knot.
“Yes, I have four sisters.” She smiles warmly at Leah and Hannah. “You two actually remind me very much of them.”
The girls grin back at her with red-sauced smiles.
“And what about you, Leo? I believe someone told me you’re an only child?” Mayor Romney says.
I clear my throat, wiping my mouth with my napkin to give myself a moment. “Yes, an only child. My mother struggled to carry her other pregnancies to term. She died during the birth of what would have been my younger brother. But he didn’t make it either.”
Signora Romney covers her mouth, her eyes sympathetic. “How terrible. She must have desperately wanted a second child to keep going through the pain of losing a baby.”
I nod, turning my eyes to my plate to avoid the truth of the matter—that my father wanted more children. As she was his wife, he believed it her duty to secure him with a second son, in case something should happen to me.
“I didn’t know that,” Tia says beside me, her voice gentle.
And when I meet her eyes, I find equal parts sadness and fear in their depths.
“How old were you when she died?”
“Seven.” I keep the emotion out of my voice.
“That must have been very hard for you and your father,” Signora Romney says, drawing my attention back to her.
I give a brief nod and attempt a smile. Then, I deliberately change the subject before the atmosphere grows too stifling. “This veal is wonderful,” I praise. “Incredibly tender.”
“Oh, thank you. It’s a family secret, actually,” she says, accepting my shift in topic with all the grace of a politician’s wife. “Though we’ve hired an in-house chef, my father was actually a butcher, so we have a few tricks up our sleeves when it comes to meals like these.”
